Matteo could not find words. His artist's soul was enthralled by the horrible magnificence of the picture.
"There are as many houses burning here mayhap as there are in all Venice, Pisa or Florence," continued Dandolo detachedly. "Well may you be awed, young sirs. It is seldom given to us to witness Divine retribution administered to the culpable, yet I say to you that that which you see here is just so surely the vengeance of God as though St. Mark himself had descended from Heaven to scatter brands. Woe to the wicked city! Woe to the oppressor! Woe to the selfish! Woe to the monarch who set pleasure and luxury on a pedestal, and neglected the well-being of those he was charged to protect!"
He was silent a moment. Then his hand struck out again in a gesture of denunciation.
"This that you see here is the healing of a sore, for it is often necessary in healing evil to sweep clean the seat of the affliction, in order that healthiness may take root and grow. We will purge Constantinople, and make it whole. We——"
A messenger panted up the stairs of the tower.
"Lord Doge! Lord Doge!"
"Well?"
"A messenger from the lords of the host. The Emperor Alexius is issuing from the gates of the land walls. A hundred thousand men march with him. The host are surrounded, and in sore peril. They cry your aid and counsel."
"Say to them—— But hold!" He turned to Hugh and Matteo. "Messers, you will favour me by carrying the message. Tell the Lord Boniface that I am coming. They have but to stand firm. The Greeks fear us."
They left him on the tower despatching orders to captains, still standing on his feet in full armour as he had stood all day since dawn, wearing the mantle of his ninety-two years like a demi-god.